Read Online The Stolen Lake by Joan Aiken - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Joan Aiken
Tags: Fiction, General, Action & Adventure, Juvenile Fiction, Adventure and Adventurers, Adventure stories
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returned to their work on the rudder, nodding in a friendly way to Dido as she walked off with the stranger.
She said "How did you know about my name and my sister's, mister?"
"You may call me Bran," he answered. "And I told you—I can't give you any explanation that you would understand. You must simply accept that I do know."
Dido digested this in silence for a minute or two. At first she felt rather mortified. He must think her a ninny! And yet he seemed friendly enough. Then something came into her mind, and she exclaimed, "Your name's Bran?"
"That is what I am called by some."
"Was that
you,
then, singing, a while ago? When I was shut in that place? About your heart being pink?"
He smiled and stroked the great white cockatoo, which all this time had been sitting as quiet as a stuffed bird on his shoulder.
"Sometimes my heart is white! Eh, Chanticleer?" The bird croaked gently and puffed up its feathers.
"He sure is a big 'un," said Dido respectfully. Then she repeated, "Was that you singing?"
"I was singing, yes. I am a jongleur."
"What's that?"
"A minstrel. I sing songs for a living. And tell stories."
Dido was interested. "That's a rare way to make a living."
She thought again, and went on, "If that's all you do, though, why was that pair of old witches so frit of you? And if you know sich a blessed lot—if you knew I was shut in there—why the blazes didn't you help me?"
"What need?" Bran said. "I knew that you would get out by yourself."
"Mighty fine talk!"
"True talk."
"Why was they scared?" she persisted.
"They have good reason to fear me," Bran said. "And you too, now."
"Why me?"
"For various reasons. But one reason why they fear both of us is that we have escaped from them, and are now on our guard."
Dido reflected that this was true. "Did
you
escape from them too, mister?"
He smiled. "I was their prisoner for more years than there are hairs on your head."
"Go on! You can't gammon me like that!"
But, still smiling, he stroked the great bird, which suddenly spread out his wings in a wide stretch, then folded them again.
"I have been in the dark," said Bran, "listening to the drops that fell from the roof, till those drops had bored a hole deeper than thrice the height of Mount Catelonde. It was during that time that I made up my songs and my stories."
"Could you tell me a story now, mister?" said Dido hopefully, as they started up the steep hill that led to The White Hart. She was walking rather slowly. Her bones ached, her bruises throbbed, she felt queasy from the effects of the poisonous pincushion, and hollow from hunger. But she added fairly, "I can't pay you for it, though—I guess you knows that! On account you seem to know everything else about me."
"I will tell you a story for love, then," Bran said, smiling. "It is about a stick. A young boy was the youngest of twelve brothers, and so his father thought little of him."
Dido was interested at once, being the youngest in her own family.
"When the older sons were grown," Bran went on, "their father gave them each a horse, sword, and suit of armor, and sent them out into the world. But to the youngest he gave nothing, saying, 'You are too undersized and puny. It would be a waste to give you armor.'"
"What a blame shame!" said Dido indignantly.
"The youngest son, however, went into the wood, and cut himself a stick, from which he made a hobbyhorse. And when he rode on it, saying, 'Fly quick, my stick!' the stick flew up into the air, and carried him wherever he wanted to go."
"Coo!" said Dido.
"Riding on his magic stick, he was able to rescue his elder brothers, who were in great danger just then, and he also killed a dragon and saved a princess, and performed other feats. And was rewarded with fame and riches.
"But the day came when he started riding on the stick merely to astonish people and get their applause; he did it in the marketplace for money, like a circus rider."
"Dunno as I blame him," said Dido.
"No? But
She said "How did you know about my name and my sister's, mister?"
"You may call me Bran," he answered. "And I told you—I can't give you any explanation that you would understand. You must simply accept that I do know."
Dido digested this in silence for a minute or two. At first she felt rather mortified. He must think her a ninny! And yet he seemed friendly enough. Then something came into her mind, and she exclaimed, "Your name's Bran?"
"That is what I am called by some."
"Was that
you,
then, singing, a while ago? When I was shut in that place? About your heart being pink?"
He smiled and stroked the great white cockatoo, which all this time had been sitting as quiet as a stuffed bird on his shoulder.
"Sometimes my heart is white! Eh, Chanticleer?" The bird croaked gently and puffed up its feathers.
"He sure is a big 'un," said Dido respectfully. Then she repeated, "Was that you singing?"
"I was singing, yes. I am a jongleur."
"What's that?"
"A minstrel. I sing songs for a living. And tell stories."
Dido was interested. "That's a rare way to make a living."
She thought again, and went on, "If that's all you do, though, why was that pair of old witches so frit of you? And if you know sich a blessed lot—if you knew I was shut in there—why the blazes didn't you help me?"
"What need?" Bran said. "I knew that you would get out by yourself."
"Mighty fine talk!"
"True talk."
"Why was they scared?" she persisted.
"They have good reason to fear me," Bran said. "And you too, now."
"Why me?"
"For various reasons. But one reason why they fear both of us is that we have escaped from them, and are now on our guard."
Dido reflected that this was true. "Did
you
escape from them too, mister?"
He smiled. "I was their prisoner for more years than there are hairs on your head."
"Go on! You can't gammon me like that!"
But, still smiling, he stroked the great bird, which suddenly spread out his wings in a wide stretch, then folded them again.
"I have been in the dark," said Bran, "listening to the drops that fell from the roof, till those drops had bored a hole deeper than thrice the height of Mount Catelonde. It was during that time that I made up my songs and my stories."
"Could you tell me a story now, mister?" said Dido hopefully, as they started up the steep hill that led to The White Hart. She was walking rather slowly. Her bones ached, her bruises throbbed, she felt queasy from the effects of the poisonous pincushion, and hollow from hunger. But she added fairly, "I can't pay you for it, though—I guess you knows that! On account you seem to know everything else about me."
"I will tell you a story for love, then," Bran said, smiling. "It is about a stick. A young boy was the youngest of twelve brothers, and so his father thought little of him."
Dido was interested at once, being the youngest in her own family.
"When the older sons were grown," Bran went on, "their father gave them each a horse, sword, and suit of armor, and sent them out into the world. But to the youngest he gave nothing, saying, 'You are too undersized and puny. It would be a waste to give you armor.'"
"What a blame shame!" said Dido indignantly.
"The youngest son, however, went into the wood, and cut himself a stick, from which he made a hobbyhorse. And when he rode on it, saying, 'Fly quick, my stick!' the stick flew up into the air, and carried him wherever he wanted to go."
"Coo!" said Dido.
"Riding on his magic stick, he was able to rescue his elder brothers, who were in great danger just then, and he also killed a dragon and saved a princess, and performed other feats. And was rewarded with fame and riches.
"But the day came when he started riding on the stick merely to astonish people and get their applause; he did it in the marketplace for money, like a circus rider."
"Dunno as I blame him," said Dido.
"No? But
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